


Two For Joy

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Bottom Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Feels, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Let Arthur Say Fuck 2k21, M/M, No Beta We Die Like Everyone Else On The Show (Except Merlin), Not Actually Unrequited Love, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29914890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: Princes are not supposed to have soulmarks. He cannot afford the vulnerability which comes with allowing someone so close, to let someone know him so deeply, to give someone so much of his trust.He probably shouldn't have one with a man. He surely shouldn't have one with a servant. He abso-fucking-lutely should not have one with a fucking sorcerer.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 419





	Two For Joy

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at 4am under the influence of a double-dose of allergy medication and energy shots, so yay!

"Fuck."

Arthur scowls down at the two smudges of hazy black-grey on his chest, the skin around them now tender and pink from vigorous scrubbing. He throws the coarse scrubbing cloth back into the water with a splash. It isn't going to come off, not unless he wants to get a flaying knife, because it is quite impossible to wash off one's soulmark.

He'd thought it was a bruise when it first started forming, or dirt. Except bruises are supposed to fade and dirt is supposed to wash off.

Arthur leans back against the side of the tub, glaring at the door of his chambers. He doesn't have to guess whose soulmark it is. Merlin's hardly left his side for more than a night for nearly a year now, so determined to be a part of Arthur's life, so determined to look after him and keep him safe.

It's just…it's not fair. Father's always told him that princes do not have soulmarks, that he cannot afford the vulnerability which comes with allowing someone so close, to let someone know him so deep, to give someone so much of his trust. If he was very, very fortunate in his choice of queen—if he even got to choose—he might one day hope to form one with her, though they are few and far between when it comes to marriages of politics and duty.

He probably shouldn't have one with a man. He surely shouldn't have one with a servant. He abso-fucking-lutely should not have one with a fucking sorcerer.

And yet here he is, sitting in a bath that shouldn't be as warm as it is, considering it's nearly Yule, and staring at a half-formed soulmark that shouldn't even exist.

What's truly unfortunate is that he won't be able to get rid of it now, not unless he makes a clean break with Merlin and sends him away. Which is never going to happen because if Merlin is willing to use magic in Camelot, a little thing like banishment isn't going to stop him.

Balefully, Arthur scratches at the smudges. They aren't distinct marks yet, the bond as of yet unsettled. Once _that_ happens, then there will be no getting rid of Merlin. The bond of soulmarks can only be broken by death; not even magic can affect them. On the one hand, Arthur would at least be certain Merlin would always be safe from the King, as Father won't be able to kill Merlin without potentially killing Arthur as well.

But on the other hand, Father might decide the risk is worth it. There are so many ways it can go wrong that even thinking about it makes his head hurt.

Maybe he ought to take Merlin to bed. Arthur hasn't had a lover for months now. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he hasn't had anyone in his bed since he met Merlin. Perhaps that's the problem. All he needs is a good tumble to help shake off…whatever the fuck this is. That's what he'll do. A few bouts of mattress sparring, Merlin will get over this idiotic infatuation, and Arthur can pretend he never wanted to see what their soulmark would be.

* * *

Surprise of surprises, bedding Merlin does not, in fact, help anything at all.

Arthur doesn't bother trying to be seductive. He's learnt it's better not to, lest any of his bedmates get the wrong impression of what he wants of them. Besides, Merlin wouldn't know subtle if it hit him over the head. So he takes the direct approach instead.

Three weeks after making his plan of action, whilst he's soaking the aches of the day out of his body in the bath, Arthur watches Merlin do the last of his duties before he leaves for the night—turning down the bed, stoking the hearth so it'll burn the rest of the night, snuffing the candles, hanging Arthur's nightshift near the fire so it'll be warm when he puts it on. He'd sooner be put to question by a witchfinder than admit it aloud, but Merlin is not actually displeasing to look at. Peculiar at first, but appealing altogether, every part fitting neatly into the next. He wonders how well those parts would fit with his own. Grasping the edges of the tub, he stands up.

"Towel's on the stool," Merlin says without looking up from where he's organizing the clutter on Arthur's desk.

Towel stays on the stool. Arthur crosses the chamber in nothing but his skin and some clinging bathwater, coming up behind Merlin. "I'm going to bed."

Merlin, damn him, doesn't turn around, just sort of tilts his head a little in acknowledgment of Arthur's voice being closer than before.

Fine, then. Arthur leans in closer, reaching out to brace his hands on the edge of the desk, caging Merlin between his arms, and all at once, Merlin goes very still. Ah. Now Arthur has his attention. Leaning in a little more, he purposefully tilts his head to exhale against the shell of Merlin's ear. "Do you care to join me?"

Merlin doesn't turn around still, but Arthur can hear his breath come a little faster. This close, he can see the pulse at the side of Merlin's throat flickering quicker. Slowly, Merlin sets down the stack of letters he'd been sorting, and one hand drifts backwards, reaching behind him. He's still not turned around, like he knows if he looks, he'll lose. Arthur shivers a little when Merlin's fingertips—they're rough, rough as his own hands—brush his bare thigh, skimming up to his hip.

Merlin exhales sharply and mumbles under his breath, almost too low for Arthur to hear, "Oh, to hell with destiny," and turns around.

Arthur's been trained for a long time to take advantage of an opening in an opponent's guard. It applies very handily to other areas of life. The instant Merlin turns, he presses in close and kisses him thoroughly, pinning him up against the edge of the desk, wrapping both arms around his waist to spread both hands over his back. It isn't exactly pleasant, considering Merlin is still entirely clothed and Arthur is beginning to get a chill standing about naked and damp, but considering he finally has Merlin's mouth on his, Merlin's hands on his shoulders and in his hair, Merlin's body flush to his…worth it.

It isn't a surprise when Merlin responds with full eagerness, his mouth opening at the first brush of Arthur's tongue, squirming out of his jacket and then his tunic—almost elbowing Arthur in the face in the process—whilst somehow keeping that stupid scarf on.

It _is_ a surprise, however, that once they're both naked, Merlin writhes out of his grasp, slippery as a fish in a stream, and instead bends Arthur over his own bloody desk and fucks him so hard he forgets how to breathe.

That's…unexpected.

He doesn't exactly recall how or when they make it to the bed, but when they do, Merlin takes Arthur again, this time on his back. He's not sure what's more surprising to him—the fact Merlin is even capable of being so forceful, or the fact Arthur enjoys it so much he'd gladly allow it whenever Merlin wishes. Afterwards, Arthur lays sprawled across the bed at an angle, head and shoulders propped against Merlin's flank, and studies at his arm. He must've knocked over his inkwell earlier; there's a smeared billow of ink on the outside of his forearm where he'd braced himself on the desktop. So much for that bath. Well, maybe he can get Merlin to join him next time.

"This is new," Merlin says drowsily. One finger traces along the line of Arthur's collarbone, just above the indistinct black smudges of his still-forming soulmark.

Arthur grunts, not looking away from the ink-splotch, even though he couldn't care less about it now.

"Do you know whose it is?" Merlin's voice is softer now, aware of how tender a subject this is.

Reaching up, Arthur grabs Merlin's hand, stopping the feather-light stroking on his collarbone—Merlin probably isn't even aware he's doing it, but he can't stand the way it feels, to have Merlin so close to touching the mark, his mark, proper. "It doesn't matter," he says at last.

Merlin blinks at him, then pulls his hand free of Arthur's, reaching over to instead stroke a finger over the ink-stain. "I suppose you'll want another bath tomorrow, then? We are both quite filthy now."

Smiling, Arthur turns his head, craning his neck back to look at Merlin directly. "Well, since we are both filthy, it's only right you should have a bath as well. I could share mine, if you'd like," he suggests. "You can wash my back."

Merlin grins back at him. "Amongst other things?"

"Amongst other things."

* * *

Merlin doesn't leave.

Yet another surprise-but-not-really. Previous bedmates had always slipped away sometime in the night or early morning, some with a little more prodding than others; either way, none of them had ever been there in the morning. Yet when Arthur tries to prod Merlin awake in the middle of the night, woken by the unfamiliar stirring of another person in his bed, Merlin smacks him away with a grumbled, "F'ck'ff," and rolls over, snuffling further into the covers.

He doesn't try again after that, a kind of warm, pleasing disbelief falling over him.

In the morning, he wakes up to Merlin under the covers and kissing a path down his belly, and all of Arthur's uncertainties about Merlin staying disappear into that damned mouth. When Merlin emerges from beneath the blanket, blinking in the sudden light with hair rumpled on end, Arthur is still gripping the sheets white-knuckle tight and shuddering. "Good morning," Merlin says with a smile, mouth red and swollen and just unfairly attractive.

Arthur would've corrected him—it's an _outstanding_ fucking morning—but he still can't remember how to speak.

"Breakfast?" Merlin asks, and without waiting for an answer, he slithers over Arthur and climbs out of the bed. He picks his clothes out of the scattered jumble on the floor, dresses, and leaves the chamber, but not before leaning over the bed once more to kiss Arthur briefly.

Once he's gone, Arthur finally manages to drag himself upright and looks down at his soulmark, having felt it itch and burn when Merlin kissed him. The amorphous smudges have reformed, sharpened into distinct shapes, each roughly the size of his palm: two black-and-white birds winging across his heart. He exhales sharply, tracing a finger over them, and swallows down the tightness that tries to close up his throat. "It doesn't matter," he murmurs aloud.

Even to his own ears, it sounds a lie.

* * *

Lie or not, it does not matter. It's a _problem,_ certainly, but it does not matter.

It's a problem because princes are not meant to have soulmarks, especially not a servant's soulmark; there is no place for either in the world of court and crown.

It's a problem because no matter how many times he tells himself this is the last time he'll let Merlin bar the door and tumble him into bed, it never is.

It's a problem because Merlin is like the sea, dark and mysterious and fathomless, and Arthur is more than willing to fill his pockets with stones.

But it doesn't _matter_ because Arthur has seen—and touched and kissed and licked—every inch of Merlin's body, and Merlin does not have a soulmark.

* * *

If Arthur was a wise man, he wouldn't have let it go any further than one night. He would have banned Merlin from his bed, never spoken of it again.

Then again, he never claimed to be wise.

Some things don't change. Merlin is still annoying and improper and too stubborn for his own good, including his apparent determination to continuously use magic in the heart of Camelot. Arthur still throws things at him some mornings and snaps at him when he has no one else to snap at and gives him a lengthy list of chores everyday, which would admittedly be unfair if he didn't know Merlin uses his magic to do half of them. Now, however, there are nights when Merlin doesn't leave after he finishes his duties, when he bars the door and crawls under the sheets, or when Arthur turns one of their hunting trips into impromptu picnics and rolls around in sun-warm grass with him.

And there are evenings like this, when it's only the two of them, and Arthur can pretend they're no different than any other lovers in the world.

"Let go—get _off,_ you overgrown ox!" Merlin laughs as Arthur grabs him 'round the waist and hauls him back onto the bed.

"Yield to your prince," Arthur demands, then kisses him thoroughly.

Merlin gives a soft moan into his mouth, and Arthur feels a bright thrill of victory, right up until Merlin shoves his chest hard, rolling them over and trying to pin him. The sheets and blankets end up tossed about and bunched up, the pillows scattering as they grapple on the bed, trading kisses and shedding clothes, each trying to get the upper hand. Arthur finally manages to get ahold of Merlin, pinning him down by the shoulders, leaning his weight down on his hands. "Do you yield?" he asks, a little breathless, not only from exertion.

"Mm…no."

There's a defiant gleam in Merlin's eye when he says it, and Arthur can't help but smile. Stubborn to the last. He thinks he wouldn't even know what to do with Merlin, if he should ever act otherwise. "Fine." He doesn't let up his grip on Merlin's shoulders, though. Instead, he shifts closer and slides one leg over Merlin's hips. Maybe Merlin won't yield to him, but Arthur's keeping the high ground.

Merlin gives a low rumble in his chest, like the purr of some great dread beast rendered content. He glances towards the bedside, gaze flicking to the drawer where Arthur the slick. Except getting it would mean Arthur would have to get up. A flicker of gold, and the small bottle is in his hand. "Cheat," Arthur chortles, amused.

"How else would I get all my chores done, hm?" Merlin asks as he pries the cork out, dipping in one finger, then a second. "Lift up."

Arthur leans forward onto his hands, now braced on the pillows to either side of Merlin's head, and takes the opportunity to kiss Merlin, nibble at his ears and suck on his throat, distracting himself into relaxing as Merlin works him open with slick fingers. As he ducks lower, laying biting kisses over Merlin's chest, a thought occurs to him. "Merlin?" he asks, lifting his head.

"Mm?"

"Will you…unspell yourself? Take the glamour off? Can you?" Arthur asks. Merlin had told him about it weeks ago, the glamour he'd cast over himself to hide the scars he earnt in his capacity as Arthur's protector, when Arthur had noticed Merlin's lack of bruising. The thought had been itching at him ever since then, wondering what Merlin looked like without it. Reading the indecision in Merlin's face, Arthur leans up and kisses him once, soft and brief. "I want to see all of you."

Merlin is quiet a moment. "Alright."

Another gleam of starlight, and Arthur inhales sharply as scars fade onto Merlin's skin, like ink-strokes seeping into thin parchment, lace ribbons traced across a canvas of flesh. There's a burn in the centre of his chest, a ragged starburst of paler skin, marks all over his arms, his shoulders. Some Arthur can recognise as being made by a blade. Others look more like they were made by beasts, claws and teeth torn into him. He has just as many as Arthur. More, even. And unlike Arthur, when he received each wound that left these scars, he didn't have anyone praising his bravery and fretting over his well-being. An unexpected heat springs up behind his eyes, a tightness in his throat. "Merlin," he whispers softly, then leans down and presses his lips to the burn scar on Merlin's breastbone, lingering a long moment before he lifts up on his knees, slipping his hand between them until he can grasp Merlin, guiding him in.

He groans low down in his throat as he sinks down. Merlin hadn't gotten him as open as he should've, and Arthur can tell already he'll be feeling this tomorrow, but he doesn't care. For what it's worth, Merlin looks half-wrecked already, panting in shallow gasps, hands gripping Arthur's thighs bruise-tight. Once he's fully seated on Merlin, Arthur takes a moment to breathe, moving his hips in small rocking motions to ease out the last of the sting. "Bend your knees," he pants.

"Wha'?" Merlin slurs, sounding almost drunk.

"Bend your knees," he repeats. He has an idea; the Duchess de Corbenic had done this to him once, and he'd loved it so much he would've asked for her hand if she hadn't already been married.

Merlin still looks a bit bemused, but he does as asked, raising his knees and bracing his feet flat against the mattress. Arthur leans back until his back is pressed to Merlin's thighs, having to close his eyes and shudder as the shift in angle brings Merlin impossibly deeper into him; beneath him, Merlin whimpers, digging his fingers into Arthur. There will certainly be bruises tomorrow. He works his hips in small motions that shouldn't amount to much of anything, but he feels like his blood is afire, burning without being consumed. Merlin's hips tilt up to meet him, stroking that one molten point of pleasure inside him again and again, until Arthur has to clap a hand over his own mouth to keep from outright _wailing_ as he climaxes without having been touched at all.

Merlin lets out a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob, and every candle in the chamber ignites with tongues of flame, long as a man's hand, so hot they're almost entirely blue. Arthur shivers at the spill of heat inside him, squeezing Merlin's hips with his thighs. When the last spasm of pleasure fades, he doesn't exactly roll off Merlin so much as he just kind of collapses onto the bed beside him, feeling as though he's come unhinged at the joints. "Oh, gods have mercy," he pants.

"The hell did you learn that?" Merlin asks after a moment, both of them catching their breath.

"Do you really want me to answer?" Arthur retorts.

Merlin huffs a breathless laugh and strokes Arthur's thigh, gently rubbing the sore spots he'd left with his tight grip. "Yeah, alright."

Smiling, he reaches over to drag his fingertips through the sweat-damp hair at Merlin's temples, smoothing his fringe back from his brow. He's been letting his hair grow out some, and to Arthur's private delight, it curls in charming profusion. "Will you leave it?" he asks quietly, winding a longer lock around his finger.

"Leave what?"

"Your glamour. Will you leave it off? I like seeing you." He'd been too impatient for it this time, but he wants to learn the story behind every one of Merlin's scars, even the inane ones from foolish childhood stumbles, wants to explore each one with fingers and lips until he knows them blind.

For a span of heartbeats, Merlin is quiet, still absently rubbing his hand over Arthur's thigh, but then he gives a small nod. "Alright. Alright."

Arthur leans in and kisses him. "Thank you. Now, will you…?" He sketches a gesture over their bodies, sweat and thicker things cooling uncomfortably on their skin. "And get the candles if you would, before you set fire to the drapes or something."

"Now who's the cheat?" Merlin prompts with a grin.

"You could always get out of bed, and I can have you bring up a bath?"

Rolling his eyes, Merlin twitches two fingers, and Arthur shivers faintly at the brush of magic over his skin, like a breath of mist. The chamber dims as the flames extinguish themselves, sinking them into a cool, peaceful darkness; now the only light comes from the slant of moonglow through the window, casting them in muted shades of bluish grey, silver, white, and black. Feeling his way over, Arthur grasps Merlin and pulls him closer, slipping one leg between Merlin's, arm over his waist. "Goodnight, Merlin," he murmurs.

All he gets in response is a drowsy snuffling, and Arthur smiles into the darkness.

* * *

Ever since they've started in with…whatever they have, Arthur's mornings go one of two ways. Either astoundingly, meaning he wakes to Merlin's mouth on him beneath the covers, or annoyingly, meaning he wakes to Merlin yanking open the curtains and shouting awful jests.

"Alright, out of bed with you! Let's have it, lazy daisy!"

Annoying it is, then.

Arthur opens one eye to squint balefully at Merlin, who's just leapt onto his side of the bed, dressed only in his breeches, and yanked the blankets off Arthur, sending a cool draught over his skin. "Fuck off," he grumbles. When Merlin only laughs, Arthur kicks the sheets off his legs, braces a foot on Merlin's nearest thigh, and shoves.

Merlin squawks, falling back off the bed with a thump and a swear. There's a scuffle of movement, and then he pops back into view like a rabbit from its warren. "Just for that, I'm eating your oatcakes."

"Don't you _dare,"_ Arthur says, lurching upright. The oatcakes Cook makes are the best part of his breakfast, especially when they're still warm from the oven and soaked in honey. He would gladly duel the man who came between him and his oatcakes with a dinner knife.

Merlin laughs as he stands up. "Got you up, didn't I?" he teases, leaning forward to ruffle Arthur's hair.

"Oh, fuck off!" He swats the offending hand away, scowling.

Still grinning at him, Merlin turns to grab his tunic from where it hangs off the back of a chair, turning his back to the bed.

Arthur's breath seizes in his throat, and for a moment, he thinks his heart stops a moment as well. _"Merlin…"_ he says, his voice breaking faintly over the name, and Merlin pauses, tunic still in his hands as he turned it right-side in and untangled the sleeves. "When's the last time you looked at your back without the glamour?"

"Not since I cast it." A frown creases Merlin's brown, mingled confusion and worry. "Why?"

Without a word, Arthur scrabbles out of bed, grabs Merlin by the arm, and hauls him across the chamber to his mirror, yanking off the sheet that covers it; hands on his shoulders, he turns Merlin to stand with his back to it.

Frowning in confusion, Merlin cranes his neck to peer over his own shoulder at the mirror. And inhales sharply when he sees.

The dragon's form spans almost the entire right side of his back, foreclaws at his shoulder blade, hindfeet braced on his lower ribs. The sinuous tail is coiled in the small of his back, and the sleek head rests just at the top of his shoulder as if drowsing there. Its hide is a deep, shimmering crimson—Pendragon red, he realises—with gold at the tips of its claws and horns, the edges of its wings.

Arthur reaches out to stroke his hand down the mark, and the skin of his palm tingles where he touches it, and his own soulmark itches and burns in response, as if connected by some tether he hadn't known existed.

"I…" Merlin turns from the mirror, staring at Arthur as if he doesn't understand. "What…?"

Reaching up, Arthur takes Merlin's face between his hands and pulls him into a kiss. "You're an idiot, I hope you know that," he murmurs, resting his brow against Merlin's, smiling. "A complete fucking _idiot._ You're lucky I love you."

"You do?" Merlin's voice is hardly a whisper, his hands at Arthur's waist, fingers curling and uncurling softly against his skin.

"I do."

Merlin smiles, one hand drifting up to press against flat to his chest over his soulmark, sending that same bright heat racing under his skin like dry lightning. "I love you, too."

Arthur leans down to wrap an arm around Merlin's hips, hoisting him up over a shoulder and carrying him to the bed.


End file.
